ON BEDS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3596, 13 February 1923, Page 61

ON BEDS.

By Wilfrid Leicester. For a poor author who casts a roving eye for something to write upon what is more fitting than that of beds. In the depths of winter when, if the snow is not actually on the ground, it feels very much as though it were, the theme is one with which, we might say, he is constantly in touch. It is a fact, better known perhaps to his own impecunious class, that an author is a thin-blooded person, and the presence of a few germs of influenza in the atmosphere is sufficient to pack him .off to his coverlets with a bottle of lung preserver and a volume of essays. During that time —often as long a period as a week, for authors besides being thin-blooded are also thick-skinned—-he will have unlimited opportunity for quiet observation, for the scheming of his magnum opus and the sundry details relative to its publication. But, curiously enough, nothing will come from* these halycon days of rest, save a fixed belief in "the right to strike. The output will be nil. He will find that the warmth of 6heets and blankets is non-creative; it deadens thought; it induces an aura of Contented forgetfulness. The only things he can remember to any degree of satisfaction are his meals and Lord North cliff e. And this is the explanation of why quarrels take place between married folk in the early hours of a cold morning. The man is petulant because he is, on these occasions, unthinking; the woman T do not propose to discuss. We must not, however, delude ourselves into the belief that lying abed is a vain exercise. On the contrary, it is a necessity. I feel that I can speak with absolute frankness, for although our greatgrandparents felt that such words as beds, legs, and under-pants were to be thought rather than mentioned, the younger generation are now persuaded that they belong to a different union from Santa Claus, and leave little to the imagination. As a matter of fact, it is exceedingly difficult nowadays to see a comedy in which the second act does not occur in a bedroom ; and for some years past America has directed her genius in the movie world, and in that of the stage itself to evolving situations that begin with the hero mistaking his own apartments and end with the villain, finding peace and quietude by an unexpected ducking in the bath. In speaking on the question the other day to the mother of a girl of eighteen, I received this remark : “If only Agatha would find the same thrill in her own bed as she found in the one in ‘Scandal’ my husband and I would have no difficulty in making her domesticated.” But youth, alas! frequently visions undying romance in a piliow-slip where Middle Age sees nothing except three sheets in the wind. Resting, of course, is a luxury—at least, so they who are now in the Government tell me. Once it was a habit; but, as someone has remarked, we regret to lose even our worst habits. Yet there can be no luxury more delectable than that of resting in bed, cosy, warm, at peace with the universe and the vendors of milk; there can be no state comparable with this lady lotus-like existence: — How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 'With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half dream. It is a delicious feeling—this watching the minutes drag by, with an occasional, glance at the alarm which we have put forward a quarter okan hour, so that we might enjoy our liberty for that space of time. Then when that has elpased it simply resolves itself into a matter of courage; it becomes the terrible conflict of comfort with conscience. The latter, in commanding tones, makes it clear that we have exactly one hour to wash, shave, dress, read the paper, and catch the train to the office; while the former, more dulcet and seductive, whispers that it is pure conceit on our part to think that the wheels of office routine will not grind (happy word!) uhtil we arrive and proceed to join in the general grind. How are we to know, moreover, that our tvpiste has not, as is her wont, had a tiff with her swain; and will not, in her Temorse, place an x where she should .place an o. With these misgivings, therefore, we raise ourselves partly from the coverlets and gaze outside. A howling southerly is blowing; it is bleak and miserable. We recollect (for, indeed, what chance do we have to forget) how one of the most excruciating tortures of the damned consists in being transported from heat to cold ; how, according to Milton, they are “baled” out of their beds by “harpy-footed furies.” So, finally we effect a compromise with ourselves; we decide either that we will have to shave in tow r n or else that we will forego breakfast altogether. Possibly in climates colder than ours, unfortunates similarly placed resolve not to wash until the coming of the spring, and in hotter ones they elect not to dress. At any rate, we snatch those ecstatic moments" of idleness when we can, and there is no subterfuge, no reasoning that we will not try in order to snare them. Facts must be faced ; were we the barometer we should get up of our ovm accord. But without further ado I mention a caution of Mr Chesterton’s to those who study the great art of lving in bed. a caution that cannot be too greatly emphasised. And it is "this, if we do lie abed, we must be sure that we have no reason or justification ; if healthy, we must have no rag of excuse, then we will get up healthy; but if we do it for some secondary hygienic reason, or to formulate some scientific theory, then we may get up hvpochondriacs.

Beds have an able champion in Sir James Barrie. They are an ideal place, he says, to spend a holiday. None of the pocking or rush about it, and a complete absence of sand in the food. But his reference to the downy nests is merely casual; he does not play upon the variations of his theme. Some day beds will receive their mead of praise, becoming dis-

tinct factors in the progress of the race instead of household furniture. Already the law has given them a grudging recognition by providing that when a creditor issues a distress warrant he must leave the debtor his bed. It is a charming tribute to their usefulness. No matter how much rent a man owes he can still take up his bed and walk. In one of the stories in Norman Davey’s “Pilgrim of a Smile,” the bed begins to speak : “Yes; but then most beds are incurable gossips; dreadful soandal-mongers, . . .” “Shut up, can’t you!’’ shouted Sumner, in a devil of a temper. ", . . . “No, I will not,” replied the bed, angrily. “I consider you, sir, to be a most illmannered person. I shall in no sense comply with your most unreasonable request. It is not often thaf I get the chance to tell the human beings who sleep on me a little truth about themselves, and I do not propose to deny myself that very harmless indulgence. It’s quite absurd for you to pretend you want to go to sleep at once; you simply don’t want to listen to me.” “That’s perfectly true,” said Sumner, and he rushes from the hotel, debarring us from hearing what the bed had to relate. Perhaps it is all for the best.